A Damn Good Name
by TheLittlestPhoenix
Summary: While Hawke is at Skyhold, Varric invites her for a couple of drinks, over which she learns that her old nickname has been given to someone else. So they must find her a new one. What follows is a crazy night inside the castle walls, in which the two team up with characters like Harding, Iron Bull and Alistair - and try to play some Wicked Grace on the side.


"Come in," Hawke said.

She quickly jumped up from her position on the bed, hopping around the room with only one boot on while trying to find the other, cursing to herself while doing so. Behind her back she could hear the door open and then close, followed by an all too familiar chuckle. "Evening, V," she said, while reaching behind the desk. Her fingers graced something soft and she, recognizing the fabric, pulled out the boot.

"Looks like you're fully prepared," Varric laughed, arms crossed over each other as he watched Hawke stumble back onto the bed. "And here I was worried you were going to be late."

"Not me." Hawke felt a smile curl around her lips. She got up again, now fully dressed. "I'm the esteemed Champion of Kirkwall, remember? I'm never late." She opened the door, breathing in the night air. In the west, the horizon colored a faint orange, and most of Skyhold was now shrouded in darkness. "See, punctual as ever."

The dwarf shook his head, following her out of the room. "The party started about an hour ago." They began walking towards the stairs. "When it was still light out."

"What is this party supposed to be, anyway?" Even from here, Hawke could already hear laughter coming from the tavern. Sounds like it is busy down there, she thought to herself.

"A welcome to the new recruits," Varric said. "The Orlesian chevaliers that the Empress sent us."

Hawke arched a brow. "And you invited _me_ to_ their _party?" She laughed, and then, in her best Orlesian accent, said: _"Oh, monsieur Tethras, what an honor."_

Varric burst out into laughter. They entered the Great Hall, heading for the large open doors, and a bunch of heads turned their way. "It might be best not to speak like that in front of them," he then said, a serious tone to his voice. "You know how Orlesians can get when you do that."

"Don't worry, V, I'll stay calm."

* * *

><p>The tavern was packed with people. In the short month that Hawke had been in Skyhold, she'd visited it a few times, but it had always been rather quiet, most of the tables empty. Tonight, however, she couldn't even see the tables. From the very moment Varric pushed open the door, a cacophony of sound hit her like a sudden gust of wind, and inside, she saw asea of faces, undoubtedly filling the entire tavern. It was as if all of Skyhold had come to have a few drinks.<p>

"You said it was no Hanged Man," Hawke yelled to Varric above the noise, "but the ale here must be really good if it's this busy."

Varric shrugged, and then turned around to stomp a guy who had accidentally elbowed him in the face a few seconds earlier. "It's the only ale you're going to get in a hundred miles," he yelled back to Hawke. "And tonight, it's only a copper per tankard." _Fair point._

While Hawke followed him, she could whispers behind her back. "The Champion! That's the one who defeated the Arishok! They say she killed a thousand qunari before reaching their leader!" She'd gotten used to it. In recent years, she'd stayed away from cities as much as possible, but rumors have a way of traveling and she'd become known in even the smallest of towns. Didn't help that she liked wearing the armour, though.

Varric had found his way to a little corner behind the stairs, where for some odd reason, no one was standing. The dwarf headed for an empty table, gesturing for Hawke to sit down. As she emerged from the crowd, moving to a chair that was stood against the wall, she realized why people had left this spot empty, and froze; a Qunari was sitting comfortably at the table's head.

Though, to be honest, Hawke wasn't exactly certain if he even _was_ a Qunari. Sure, his body was nothing but a heap of bulging muscles, and his horns were possibly the largest she'd ever seen - save only from the Arishok's. But other than that, he was completely different from any other member of his race - or philosophy, or whatever -, at least those that Hawke had encountered in Kirkwall. For one, he was drinking.

"Hawke, meet Tiny; Tiny, meet Hawke," Varric said, a smirk on his face._ You knew I'd be surprised, you bastard._ Hawke sat down in her chair, nodding at… Tiny. He raised his tankard, and as he did so, Hawke noticed he was wearing an eye patch. _You must be joking._

"Nice to meet you."_ I think._

He responded with a deep voice - Hawke was glad she could at least find some consistency in that. "You too, Champion. Just so you know, I think the old Arishok was full of crap. A lot of us in the Qun do. You did well to kick him out of there."

_What in the world…_ "Thanks," Hawke said, not entirely sure what was going on. "I eh… thanks." She smiled.

Tiny laughed. "The Iron Bull, at your service. Call me Bull; ignore what Varric says."

"Hmph." Varric grunted, then chuckled, and got up. "I'm going to get some ale. You too, Hawke?"

She nodded. "Thank you, V." As Varric left, she turned to the Qunari again, raising an eyebrow. "Tiny?"

He laughed. "Ah, it's typical Varric. He goes around giving everyone nicknames, most of them ironic. But I don't have to tell you that, I'm sure."

Hawke found herself chuckling. "Well… his names didn't use to be ironic in nature. If someone was from Rivain, he'd call them Rivaini. If someone had blond hair, he'd call them Blondie. He calls my sister Sunshine, because she is. I don't recall any ironic names."

"Hmm." Bull emptied his tankard and slammed it down on the table. "So, what does he call you? Red, perhaps? I must say, I do like your hair."

Is this how Qunari flirt? Hawke smiled. "My hair may be red, but I'm not sure if Varric would use just that as a base for his nickname. Though, actually, he doesn't call me anything."

The Iron Bull's eyes widened in what Hawke could only believe was genuine shock. "He doesn't- no…" His hand balded into a fist. "I find that hard to believe." Right as he said that, Varric arrived, handing a tankard of ale to Hawke. "Believe what, Tiny?", he asked.

What followed would have Hawke laughing to the point of tears, as the shock would throw Varric off his balance and have him tumbling to the ground, chair and all. Bull rose up from his chair - Hawke noticed how insanely big he was, and also that he apparently liked wearing really wide and odd-looking pants -, and bellowed: "No nickname, Varric, really? No nickname for the _Champion of Kirkwall_?!" A few heads turned their way.

It took a few seconds for both Hawke and Varric to regain their composure, the latter stumbling to his feet and the former wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. Through the haze that was her sight she could see the dwarf looking rather dazed, as if unsure what had just occurred. He climbed back into his chair. "I'm sorry," Bull said then, seemingly shocked at his own outburst. "It must be the drink talking." He gestured to the four empty tankards in front of him.

Varric sighed. "Hawke already has a nickname of sorts."

At that, she raised an eyebrow. "Really? I thought that was just a joke."

"Well, i-"

"What nickname?" Bull leaned forward, his eye glistening with curiosity. "Go on, tell me."

Hawke snorted as Varric pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's… Chuckles."

A second outburst. This time of laughter.

"Chuckles, Varric? That is hilarious!" As the laughter overcame him, Bull slapped his own thighs, his face one big_ hahaha_.

Now it was Hawke's turn to raise an eyebrow. Naturally, she remembered the particular nickname all too well. She'd asked Varric once, in the woods near Chateau Haine, why he'd never given her a nickname. Chuckles had been his answer to that. But she'd never really taken it seriously, as at the time she'd only been joking around, to lighten the mood while they were all hunting a wyvern. So it'd never stuck. It hadn't been that hilarious, really, certainly not as much as the Iron Bull would now lead them to believe. She wondered if there was more to it.

And there was. Only a mere second after the Iron Bull had stopped laughing, Varric shot her a glance that said_ I am sorry_, and then he opened his mouth. "To explain," he said, "I use Chuckles for someone else now."

"Ah, I see." Hawke sipped her ale. _This is going to be amusing._ "Who is that?"

"He's a mage." Varric's mouth widened into a grin. He was obviously quite happy with the person he'd chosen for this particular name. More likely than not, Hawke thought to herself, it's ironic in nature. "An elf, to be precise. You may have seen him around. Bald head, walks around all dreamy-looking…" _And it is._

She chuckled. "Ah yes, I know who you mean. Solas, righ-"

It was right then that someone fell on the table.

With a deafening crack, the wood broke under the weight and collapsed. All three shot upwards as ale and beer spilled everywhere, and glanced down at the young Inquisition soldier who lay at their feet, face-down. Unconscious, Hawke noticed. Around them, a small crowd gathered, and the music fell silent.

"Andraste's _âne,_", someone close nearby yelled. As people moved aside to let this person through, Hawke saw what she could only assume was a chevalier. "I think I knocked him out," he remarked as he approached. His face was one of triumph.

"You didn't have to do that," Varric mumbled. The chevalier shot him a glance, anger now filling his eyes.

"Shut your mouth, dwarf, and remember who you are talking to. I am one of Empress Celene's -"

"- soldiers, if you can call them that," Hawke said as she stepped forward. Being nearly a head taller than the chevalier, she had to look down upon his neatly combed hair. "Yes, we know." She couldn't help it. She just had to step in. How could she not, when someone insulted Varric like that? _And broke our table._

And now it was too late to go back. The chevalier turned, face flaming. "Don't you dare interrupt me, you little… you _putain_!"

Hawke didn't have to speak Orlesian to know what the man had just said. She shot a sideways glance at Varric, whose eyes told her _Don't_, at the Iron Bull, who was busy trying to get out of the puddle of alcohol that had formed around the unconscious soldier, and at the other people in the tavern, whose awaiting expressions spoke volumes.

And then, in her best Orlesian accent, she replied: _"Is that how you speak to the Champion of Kirkwall?"_

She dodged the first blow.


End file.
